Advent
by Trilby
Summary: A young woman shows up at the dojo looking for a teacher, but there are complications.


[ADVENT, Part 1 OF 7] [First story in "The Disciple" arc] 

When you're sad and when you're lonely And you haven't got a friend Just remember that death is not the end And all that you've held sacred Falls down and does not mend Just remember that death is not the end -------------------- "Death Is Not The End", B.Dylan 

"Come on, old man, fight back!" 

"I AM fighting back, you smug" - parry - "self-satisfied" - riposte - "S.O.B.!!" 

Joe leaned back in his chair and chuckled, watching his two friends spar. ||The old guy's a lot better than I would've thought,|| Joe mused, grinning. He had left the bar in Mike's care for the evening rather than miss witnessing this duel, but he didn't have any doubts about whose head would be in danger if it was for real. Mac was more skilled with the sword by far; even to the most casual "Watcher." 

||That is,|| Joe reminded himself, ||if this is the best Methos can do.|| No matter how much he liked Methos, it was best not to forget that the elusive Immortal revealed very little about himself, and much of that was contradictory. 

"What's the matter, Methos?" Duncan's katana sang through empty air as Methos leaped backwards out of range. "I promise not to do anything to you that won't heal." He slashed at Methos again as they danced across the dull wood flooring, trying to drive the Immortal into the trap of a corner. 

"That's because you" - quick parry - "won't get the chance," - a thrust that caught the cuff of MacLeod's sleeve - "oh mighty warrior of the Clan MacLeod!" 

At the center of the dojo workout area, Duncan MacLeod was also grinning broadly as he chased Methos across the floor. On occasion he had wondered whether his friend was as "out of practice" as he had claimed to be, that night when Methos had begged Duncan to take his head rather than risk being defeated and losing his head and Quickening to Kalas. Partly from curiosity, partly from real concern, MacLeod had finally goaded Methos into sparring with him. Well, not goaded, exactly. Methos had lost a bar bet - over Lord Byron, of all things. Duncan rarely gambled, but he had been known to make an exception when something struck him as a sure thing. In this case, he was fairly certain Methos wouldn't recall that Byron had mis-pronounced "Don Juan". ||He may have read the poetry, but he won't remember the details,|| MacLeod reasoned, and he was right. Joe had obligingly settled the matter by Internet search, which proved the Highlander to be correct: in the very first verse of his epic poem, Byron had rhymed "Juan" with "new one" and "true one". Methos' petulance over losing such a silly bet had taken both MacLeod and Dawson by surprise, but the older Immortal kept his word and the result was that Duncan was finally crossing swords with Methos in this evening's sparring practice at the dojo. ||And he's good,|| MacLeod thought, shaking the sweat from his eyes as he pursued Methos in circles across the scarred wooden floor. ||Really good. He's faking his clumsiness .... If he were as inept as he pretends to be, I would have had him long before now ..... I wonder just HOW good.....|| Moving quickly amid the ringing of swords clashing and the swift patter of their light footsteps, Duncan cornered Methos and doubled the force of his blows. Methos parried just as swiftly, feinted to the left, and then rushed MacLeod unexpectedly, blade raised high.... 

And suddenly both Immortals froze in place, staring for a moment at each other; then they whipped around to stand back-to-back, swords held ready, looking quickly around the dojo. 

Nobody was in sight but Joe, stretched out in a chair and staring at them in startled apprehension. 

"Expecting anyone?" Methos asked drily. 

"No, are you?" Duncan answered. 

"No one I'm aware of." He looked over his shoulder at his friend. "Well, it's your dojo. It's probably for you." 

Duncan sighed and stepped silently towards the entrance hallway as Joe struggled to his feet. MacLeod listened, heard nothing. He stepped past Dawson and moved closer to the doorway, stopped, listened again. Still nothing. He lifted his sword and stepped into the darkened hall. He opened his mouth to make the customary declaration - 

- but stopped. Seated several feet away from him, on the entranceway bench, was a young woman; she was small and slender, dressed plainly in old jeans, a black sweater, and a scruffy wool menswear jacket, but she was clean and well-groomed. Her hair was black and thick, pulled casually into a heavy knot at the back of her neck. She seemed to have no sword. No weapon of any kind was apparent - not that *that* meant anything - but MacLeod took note of how the right-hand pocket of her jacket hung down, unnaturally heavy and bulky. She was doubled over where she sat, with her head between her knees, rocking slightly back and forth. Her hands were pressed hard against her temples and forehead, and she seemed unaware that Duncan had moved into the hallway. She didn't look to be any immediate danger to them at all ..... but there was that buzz. He and Methos had both felt it. Undeniably, it came from her. 

"I'm .... Duncan MacLeod .... of the Clan MacLeod," he announced in a low voice, feeling rather foolish. 

At the sound of his voice, the young woman looked up, startled. She stared up at MacLeod with wide grey eyes that seemed a little unfocused as she turned towards him hesitantly. Small white hands gripped the back of the bench for support, but her back was straight and she held her head high despite her disorientation. 

"I didn't mean to interfere," she said slowly, blinking vaguely. "The door was unlocked so I came in, and then out of nowhere I thought I was going to pass out. I could hear that you were fighting, I didn't want to interrupt ....." One hand went to her forehead, passed over her eyes. "I've never fainted before. I feel ridiculous." 

"Mac, what's going on?" asked Methos, appearing suddenly in the doorway. Duncan nodded towards the woman as she shook her head, trying to clear it. 

"New student, I think." 

"Oh, no. Not again." 

"Methos," MacLeod muttered warningly. 

"Right," sighed the Immortal in resignation as he disappeared back into the dojo. "I'll get some water." 

MacLeod set his sword aside and stepped toward the woman, kneeling beside her and laying a hand on her shoulder as she started to push herself to her feet. "Stay there for a moment. My friend is bringing a glass of water." 

"This is *so* embarrassing. I've never fainted in my life. Headaches, sure, but not this!" She stayed on the bench, but she firmly shrugged Duncan's hand from her shoulder. "Do I know how to make an entrance, or what?" she asked, managing a politely apologetic smile as she tried to focus her eyes on MacLeod. 

He couldn't help smiling in return. "I've seen worse. Just rest a minute. Whatever's wrong, give it a moment to pass." But as he spoke, he kept a wary eye on the pocket of her coat, ready to react quickly if her hand moved towards the heavy lump. ||Wouldn't be the first time one Immortal shot another as a shortcut to an easy Quickening,|| he reminded himself. 

"You're awfully good with women in distress," the young stranger observed wryly, trying to make a joke out of a situation that she clearly felt as a humiliation. "Do you get this a lot here?" 

"More often than I'd like," Duncan admitted, as Methos appeared with the promised glass of water; Joe was following close behind him. ||Must be a great opportunity for a Watcher,|| thought Duncan as he handed the water to the dark-haired young woman. ||Now he gets to look her up in the archives. If she's not known to them, it must be like discovering a new species.|| Aloud, he said, "These are my friends. Joe Dawson, Adam Pierson." 

She sipped the water and took a deep breath. "Thanks," she said, rising cautiously to her feet and holding her free hand out to each in turn. She was small, not much more than five feet; built delicately, with small bones and long limbs. Although her eyes still had trouble coming into focus, she was carefully trying to control her movements, and her handshake was firm. Her smile was polite, but reserved rather than friendly. "I'm Rachel. Rachel Hudson. Pleased to meet you all. You're right," she said to Duncan, "the dizziness is wearing off. Just working too hard lately, I guess." 

"I suppose," MacLeod answered hesitantly. He looked at his two companions; Joe just shrugged - Hey, this is your show, buddy - and Methos actually turned away and walked back into the dojo. ||Great,|| thought MacLeod. ||I can always count on my friends.|| 

"I wasn't sure if you were open on a Saturday evening," Rachel said tentatively, looking from one to the other. "The door was unlocked, but there aren't any hours posted. So I took a chance someone would be here, and just walked in. And then I nearly passed out on your floor," she added, with a crooked grin. Her dizziness seemed to be passing - she was a little more steady on her feet - but clearly she was still embarrassed. Duncan looked at her curiously, wondering when she would either get to the point of her unannounced visit, or make a formal challenge. 

"Who have you come here for?" he asked directly. 

Rachel looked at him quizzically and handed back the empty glass. "I was looking for you. Didn't you say you're Duncan MacLeod? Isn't this your dojo?" 

"That's right. But why are you here?" 

She continued to stare up at him, perplexed. "Well, I came here to study with you, if you're willing to take me on. I asked around. Everybody who knows about this stuff says that, as a teacher, you're the best there is. Did I make a mistake? I mean, you do take students, don't you?" 

"I've had students, yes, but ....well.....it's not that simple, Ms Hudson. Taking on a student is - " 

"Ms Hudson," Dawson interrupted suddenly, "what sort of lessons are you interested in?" MacLeod glanced at his Watcher friend with a frown of warning. For all of Joe's incurable addiction to stepping away from his Oath and into the middle of Immortal business, Duncan had never known him to interfere with anything as personal as the student/teacher partnership - even though this one certainly wasn't official and might not even materialize. To MacLeod's bemusement, Joe was watching the young newcomer with a mischievous light in his eyes and an amused grin on his face. 

Rachel looked from one to the other. "I'm really not even familiar enough with the details to know what to ask for. Personal defense of some sort. Ed Honnegar is a neighbour of mine, he's into Tae Kwon Do. He raves about the class he takes here, but it's in the evening when I'm not free. I came to ask about schedules and fees, maybe private lessons if I can afford your rates...." She trailed off slowly. "Um.....did I come at a bad time?" 

"No, no, not at all," Joe said with a laugh as Duncan ran his hands through his hair, momentarily at a loss for words. "As a matter of fact, Ms Hudson, I'd say your timing is just about perfect." He punched Duncan heartily on the shoulder, clearly enjoying his friend's confusion. "Isn't that right, Mac?" 

Duncan stared at Dawson briefly, then turned back to Rachel in sudden comprehension. ||She doesn't know she's Immortal,|| he realized, looking down into wide eyes that were becoming more puzzled and even a little suspicious. ||She doesn't even know that she's gone through her First Death! Her life's been changed forever, and she's not even aware yet that she's different.|| "He's right, Ms Hudson," MacLeod said aloud. "Of course I take students, and this is a perfectly good time. My office is at the back, if you'd like to come with me we can talk about....what sort of lessons would be most helpful to you." 

Rachel looked from one man to the other apprehensively, and glanced toward the dojo doorway where Methos had disappeared. She looked up at Duncan for a long moment, appraising him carefully. Then she took a deep breath, shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, and shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure. And, look, call me Rachel, OK?" 

[End of Part 1] 

[ADVENT, Part 2 of 7] 

May your hands always be busy, May your feet always be swift, May you have a strong foundation When the winds of changes shift. -------------------- "Forever Young", B. Dylan 

Duncan smiled encouragingly. "My office is this way," he said, and turned to walk towards the back of the dojo. He was aware Rachel was hanging back, not following him directly, but he didn't turn back or break his stride. ||She'll either come and talk with me, or she won't,|| he thought. ||If this is going to happen, it has to be her decision.|| 

After a few moments of hesitation, Rachel followed, but at a distance. She walked slowly, taking in her surroundings, getting her bearings in the wide emptiness of the workout area. Joe walked with her, not too close, respecting her need for plenty of space, but studying her minutely with observant, practiced eyes. There was something wary, almost skittish in the way she looked around cautiously, checking her surroundings, but she kept her face carefully neutral. She still seemed a little unsteady on her feet, but she walked with impeccable posture and a light step; her low-heeled, scuffed boots of red suede were nearly soundless as she skirted the exercise mats scattered across the floor and continued towards the office where MacLeod was waiting. 

Dawson noted that as Rachel walked, she scanned the dojo critically. She seemed to approve of what she saw. As managed by Duncan, it was a spare, clean, no-nonsense studio for serious martial arts practitioners, not a showplace for aerobics bunnies in pink leotards. The vast center was clear except for the handful of exercise mats. Heavy walls rose up to the ceiling of the second floor, and the high windows were open to the night sky. The wooden floor of the workout area was ringed with any number of smaller areas for individual training or practice, and MacLeod's impressive collections of weapons were displayed in neat arrays. Dawson saw Rachel's curious scrutiny pause at some of the more ornate or unusual items, but her expression gave away nothing more than cautious neutrality. 

Methos was sitting on the weight bench with his feet propped up on a barbell, and Joe smacked the sole of Methos' shoes with his cane as they passed. 

"Come on, *Adam*, join the party," he said, meaningfully. He knew that, given a choice, Methos would prefer to sit quietly on the sidelines and observe, and usually Joe was content to leave him to his solitary ways. Tonight, though, the circumstances were different. The young woman who had come to MacLeod's dojo was nervous, wary, and in more urgent need of help than she could possibly imagine. Any smart woman, alone with three men in unfamiliar surroundings, would be sure to perceive a stranger between her and any door as a potential threat. From the alert, vigilant attention Rachel was giving her surroundings, Joe felt certain that whatever Rachel's faults might be, carelessness was not one of them. 

On the bench, the ancient Immortal sighed, got to his feet, and trailed after his Watcher friend towards the office. Rachel still hung back a little, looking around the studio, letting the two men follow MacLeod into the office cubicle well ahead of her. She waited till they were through the door, then she finally stepped in close enough to lean casually against the doorjamb. Sensitive to the young woman's wariness, Dawson and Methos had both taken seats in the far corner behind MacLeod's desk, distant, but where she could see them clearly. Duncan had pulled a few chairs forward, and he sat with one hip propped on the edge of the desk, shuffling through a few files, studying Rachel surreptitiously. She looked drained, even fragile, but she still moved and held herself with a poise that to Duncan's critical eye was a sure indication of strength and athletic ability. Tired or not, she ignored the chairs and remained on her feet in the doorway. 

||She's doesn't trust us,|| Duncan observed thoughtfully. ||Well, there's no reason that she should, but it won't make this any easier.|| Rachel kept her expression calm and casual, smiling politely, but the Highlander did not miss the nonchalant glances over her shoulder, checking for the locations of all the visible doors. ||Making sure she has a clear escape route,|| Duncan thought approvingly. ||Natural survival instincts. That's good.|| He studied the diminutive young woman standing a few yards away from him. Even half-seated as he was, he practically towered over her. ||She'll need whatever natural skills she has, and then some.|| It would take a lot of training for Rachel to be able to effectively defend herself. Other than practice foils, he wasn't sure he owned a sword light enough for her to handle properly. In different clothes, she might even be mistaken for a teenager, and a young one at that - until you looked into those candid, canny grey eyes. 

||Have to get this started somehow,|| Duncan thought. Rachel seemed to be waiting for him to begin. Aloud, he suggested, "Tell me why you decided to take instruction in self-defense." 

The smile suddenly froze on her face and her steady gaze faltered for a moment. When she looked up at MacLeod again, her eyes were grim, and cold as steel. She took a deep breath, but said nothing. Whatever words she needed seemed to come hard. 

"Something......happened to you, didn't it?" Duncan prodded gently. "Made you decide to learn to protect your life. And fairly recently, I imagine." Rachel nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his. She still lounged with one shoulder against the doorjamb, her hands thrust deep into her jacket pockets, both feet planted firmly on the floor. A passing observer might have thought she looked relaxed and at ease, but to Duncan it was clear that she was on guard against trouble, poised to bolt across the dojo and out the entrance hall if need be. 

||We can't make any headway at all till she starts to trust us,|| he thought. 

"Ms Hudson," he said quietly, "I don't know what happened to you. Maybe I don't need to know, that's your decision to make as you see fit. I'll gladly take you as a student in whatever discipline you choose. If fees are a problem, well, I own this place, I can make adjustments. The only thing I need from you, now, before we decide on anything else, is this: know that whatever happened to make you come here tonight, it's not your fault." 

At his words, Rachel's head jerked upwards as though she had been struck. Her sharp, ragged intake of breath was loud and harsh in the silence of the empty studio, and the muscles in her jaw visibly clenched in her efforts to reassert control over her emotions. 

"I don't blame you for being uneasy here," Duncan continued, his voice as kind and compassionate as he could make it. "You're alone, in a place you don't know, with three men you've never met. You'd be a fool not to be cautious. All I can offer you is my word. Nobody here will hurt you, and none of us is going to pass judgement. If you feel threatened, or uneasy, you can walk away anytime you choose. But I promise you that here, in my studio, you're safe from harm." 

Rachel continued to study him with those unwavering eyes. Duncan returned her level gaze as openly and honestly as he could. 

"We're less than 3 minutes from the local precinct," he continued quietly, and gestured at the entrance hall behind her. "Out the same door you came in through, turn right at the corner, go three more blocks and turn east. The station is just a few more blocks up on the left. Ask for Sergeant Powell or Sergeant Bennett." MacLeod had to smile at the thought of this well-mannered, self-possessed young woman marching up to Bennett: ||Pardon me, Sergeant, I need a character reference on Duncan MacLeod, if you please.|| "They won't like having to admit it, but either one of them will vouch for me." 

At that, even Rachel couldn't help but return MacLeod's smile. For the first time, she glanced away from Duncan, looking past him to Methos and Dawson, who were trying their best to look trustworthy. She wavered for another moment of uncertainty, then some inner conflict seemed to resolve itself. 

Rachel took a deep breath and made the leap of faith. She looked down, smiled a little ruefully at herself, and - finally - took her right hand out of her coat pocket. 

"I've told the story so many times now, you'd think I'd be used to talking about it," she said, her voice weary and sad. "I keep expecting it to get easier." 

"No need for any details, darlin'," Dawson suggested kindly from his corner. "Just give us the gist of it." 

Rachel crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "You don't know what it's like till it happens to you," she said, her voice low. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I wasn't even hurt. I know I'm making too big a deal about this. Dramatizing it. Everybody says, How terrible for you, how lucky that nothing really *bad* happened.' Well, they can just wait till it happens to *them*, and I hope it never does. See what the nothing' feels like then." She passed a hand across her mouth nervously. "When I called the police, they didn't even pretend to be interested - they acted as though I was wasting their time by reporting it," she snorted. 

"By reporting what?" asked Duncan. 

Rachel set her shoulders and raised her chin slightly, looked directly at MacLeod again. "Last week, someone broke into my room in the middle of the night. It was ridiculous that he picked my place. Where I live, nobody *has* anything worth stealing. I don't have any money, or anything that's valuable - nothing that's worth anything at all. Well, except to me. You know?" 

"Yes," Duncan said, thinking of they many small items of minimal value but immense significance that he had accumulated through the years. "Yes, I know." 

Rachel shook her head and shrugged. Almost unconsciously she had moved a little closer, just inside the office, and now she began to pace slightly, back and forth in front of MacLeod's desk, like a small caged panther. 

"Nothing worth breaking into a locked apartment for, anyway. The police said it was just one of those things', one of those incidents of random violence ...... Well. I was sound asleep, it was the middle of the night, and something woke me up. It took me a minute to realize I'd heard my own window being opened. By then I could already hear someone climbing into my room." She hugged herself and shuddered. "OK, I *know* it was stupid, but I thought I could reach for the phone and dial 911. Well, he caught me, and he jumped me." 

Rachel looked from one man to the other belligerently, waiting for the inevitable responses, the same ones that had come from the police and even from her neighbours: ||What the hell were you thinking? Didn't you know how dangerous that was?|| But contrary to all her expectations, all three of these men - these strangers - were listening intently, with neither pity nor indifference in their eyes. The older man with the rough, gentle voice, the one named Joe, was leaning forward with an elbow in the corner of the desk, watching her with grim concern on his expressive face. Rachel had not missed his cane or his stiff gait, and she suddenly realized that he understood the terrible damage that random violation can do to a person's soul far better than she could. 

She looked at MacLeod, with his troubled dark eyes and compassionate face. At the slender, quiet one named Adam, studying her in pensive, thoughtful silence. It dawned on her that, true to Mr MacLeod's word, they were not going to hold her at fault for what had happened to her. 

The unfamiliarity of such kindness and empathy made her want to turn and bolt for the door. 

"Anyway. I tried to reach for the phone, and he caught me. I tried to fight him off, I know I scratched his face hard, but he was too big. I tried to get him in the balls - " she glanced up contentiously, expecting a negative reaction from her male audience, still finding only that astonishing acceptance. 

Her voice was beginning to shake slightly. "I tried, but I couldn't reach with my hands, and he had my legs pinned down. I remember thinking, just before I blacked out, that if he damaged my larynx, my life would be over and I'd rather he *did* just kill me." 

One hand flew involuntarily to her throat as she looked from one blank face to another. "I'm a singer," she explained. "That's how I make my living. But, thank God, when I came to in the morning, I wasn't even bruised! And he left without taking anything - not a thing. Even my money and my credit cards were still in my wallet. The police said he probably thought he *had* killed me, and was so scared he just ran. So there wasn't any real harm done, and I didn't even lose anything. I just had the life scared out of me." 

Rachel pulled her jacket around herself more tightly. She shook her head and laughed at herself ruefully, a little embarrassed. 

"The thing is, I just can't get past being afraid," she continued. "I even started carrying my grandfather's gun around with me, and I've never in my life used it for anything except target practice. I haven't fired it for years, I only kept it because it was my Grandpa's. I didn't even have any bullets till a few days ago. I can't imagine firing it *at* someone, but if I were threatened again ..... I don't know. I really don't want to hurt anyone else. So ... I started asking around about self-defense. Your name kept coming up. Even at the police station." She looked up at MacLeod again with an embarrassed little grin. "Well, I *did* check you out before I came here." 

Duncan held her gaze thoughtfully for a moment, then dropped his eyes. He took a deep breath and looked over his shoulder at his two friends. Methos was lounging back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, withdrawn. Dawson looked back at MacLeod, his face worn and sad; he shrugged, drew a sharp breath as if about to speak, then let it out slowly, shaking his head. The Watcher and the Immortal stared at each other in silence. Neither had any idea what to do or say next. 

Rachel looked from one to the other, completely at a loss to understand their silence, or the looks that passed between them. She waited for one of them to speak, then spread her hands. 

"What?" she demanded. 

[End of Part 2 of 7] 

[ADVENT, Part 3 of 7] 

I've been down in the bottom of a world of lies I ain't lookin' for nothing in anyone's eyes. -------------------- "Not Dark Yet", B.Dylan 

MacLeod rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward towards Rachel earnestly. 

"More happened the night you were attacked than you realize," he began. "This is going to be hard for you to hear, even harder to understand ...." 

In the corner behind Duncan's desk, Joe quietly leaned over and opened a drawer, found a bottle and a couple of clean glasses. He poured a generous measure for himself and raised Rachel's empty water glass to her in invitation. She glanced at him, shook her head with a smile. Joe poured a new glass for Methos instead and settled back. It was going to be a very long night, and Rachel's smile was going to disappear fast. 

In fact, the polite smile only lasted through Mac's first few sentences. 

It was territory that MacLeod and Methos had returned to over and over through the centuries. There was seldom much variation to the theme: explanations that sounded fantastic even to the Immortals and the Watcher, brief personal histories (Methos' account of his life being highly edited), trying to make it believable to the bewildered young woman. MacLeod knew well enough how bizarre it sounded. Rachel's situation didn't make it any easier; MacLeod couldn't remember the last time it had been necessary to convince someone that their own death had occurred to begin with, let alone adding Immortality on top of it. Joe, for once holding true to his Watchers oath, sat silently behind the desk and ..... watched. 

Rachel remained immobile in the doorway, silent as stone, careful to keep the horror and apprehension from registering on her face. It was something she was very good at. Sometimes, when she was onstage and something went horribly, wretchedly wrong, she would find her attention splitting into two halves. Part of her mind would keep on singing, acting, following the stage directions; the other, sharp and analytical, would detach itself and scan the situation like radar, looking for the chance to move, cut to a new section, whatever it took to bring the world back to normal. She felt that same sense of disassociation now. Outwardly, she was listening serenely to MacLeod's quiet, calming voice; but her thoughts were flying from one idea to another, trying to wring some sort of sense out of this sincere, charismatic man's fanciful tale. ||A sick joke? A legend of some kind? Maybe some weird cult?|| she wondered, grasping for any notion that could make this come out right and explain why he was telling her these absurd things. 

Immortality, healing, the "sense", as he called it - "It's what causes that headache. With you, it seems to make you dizzy, too. That will get better, with time. I know someone who sneezes every time he gets near another Immortal." The dark-haired man's story got more and more strange. Rachel listened to every word while inwardly she frantically debated what to do. She continued to stand her ground, calm and attentive to all appearances in spite of the sickness that was gathering like a lump of ice deep in her stomach. These men had been so sympathetic; she wanted to show them the same acceptance they had given her, but this was just ... insane. Beyond insane. Worse than anything she had ever heard of, or could have possibly imagined. She was even more disturbed by her own ridiculously emotional reaction - overreaction - to this sudden descent into the twilight zone. The desolation and the irrational sense of loss she felt were completely unreasonable. ||Get a grip,|| she scolded herself coldly. ||These people are not your friends. You don't have to listen to this. They're three strangers who were kind to you, that's all, and you don't owe them anything.|| 

"It's late, I know I must be disturbing you," Rachel said aloud, abruptly breaking into MacLeod's narrative. She felt her cheeks flaming with shame at the excuses, so obviously contrived. "I have to be up early in the morning for church," she continued lamely, buttoning her jacket, intent on escaping. MacLeod slipped off the desk and approached her slowly. Rachel took a quick, cautious step backwards, her face hardening. 

Duncan stopped, keeping a safe distance between them, careful not to alarm the girl any further. "Hear us out, Rachel. Certainly you can go anytime you want. Nobody here will raise a hand to stop you if you choose to leave., but I hope you stay and listen. Please." 

"It could be a fairy tale," Methos commented from his corner of the office. "Or it could be the difference between living and dying. Either way, where's the harm in listening?" 

Rachel wavered. She glanced at the attractive older man sitting quietly in the corner. He hadn't taken any part in this lunacy. In fact, he hadn't spoken a word since MacLeod, with Pierson's input, had launched into this bizarre story. Maybe, maybe he could explain what was going on ... ? 

Aloud, she asked Dawson, "I suppose you're Immortal, too?" 

"Me?" Joe looked up. "No, darlin'. I'm just a friend, hangin' around in case I can help out." He gave her an encouraging smile. "You could say I'm their keeper," he added with a laugh. He was happy to see that his joke brought a brief smile to Rachel's face. "Seriously, Ms Hudson," he continued gently, "I know how it sounds. They do, too. They wouldn't be dumping this burden on you if it weren't important." 

Rachel studied Dawson solemnly for a few moments, deliberating. ||What can it hurt, just to humour them?|| she thought. ||However demented they may be, they don't seem dangerous .... so far.|| Finally she turned back to MacLeod. 

"Go on," she said uncomfortably. "I'm listening." 

MacLeod shot Joe a grateful glance and returned to his stories and explanations. 

Rachel listened. She was still doubtful, uncomfortable, and troubled, but she stayed, and she listened. Just the same, she watched MacLeod and Methos closely, ready for a quick dash for the door at the first sign of anything remotely threatening. 

MacLeod was observing Rachel every bit as carefully as she watched him. Her conflicted feelings were more obvious to MacLeod than Rachel would have been comfortable knowing. He had caught the subtle changes in her expression when she realized he was not playing some incomprehensible joke. The honest emotions that had begun to register on her mobile face earlier, when she had told them about being attacked, had disappeared as abruptly as if she had snapped off a light. Mac shifted as he leaned against the desk, looking seriously at Rachel as she stood rigid in the doorway, her arms tightly crossed. She showed no further signs of leaving, at least not so far. ||Good for you, Rachel, that's it,|| he thought, as he went on telling her about Immortality. He kept his voice low and soothing, wanting her to hear it all whether she believed it or not. ||You don't have to understand yet. In time, somehow, something will happen to prove it to you. Just let me get through it, let me tell it all to you. Any part of this might save your life sometime soon.|| In the end, Rachel stayed through the whole thing, listening skeptically but intently to all of it. The Game, the Rules, the Prize. Everything. MacLeod spoke as sincerely as he could, with a few words put in here and there by Methos. Still, without even the awareness of First Death to help Rachel believe, the most positive reaction they could read was apprehensive bewilderment. 

Her wary attention lasted till, inevitably, MacLeod finally came to the Beheading. And the Quickening. 

As circumspectly as possible, Mac explained the only way an Immortal could truly die. 

Rachel began to stiffen as she listened, distressed and disturbed. Till now, the story MacLeod had been telling her was fanciful but harmless. This sudden shift towards derangement and violence was frightening. It was like a horror movie, a bad TV show. This gentle, compassionate man was talking calmly and seriously about armed combat and beheading people as part of a Game. 

||Isn't that what they always say about psychopaths?|| she told herself dismally. ||"He was always such a nice, quiet man ...."|| Slowly, hoping she wasn't being too obvious, she began to edge a little closer towards the door..... 

MacLeod had been here before. He saw rejection coming over Rachel almost before she acknowledged it herself. He could almost see it filling her mind, crowding her awareness till there was hardly room for anything else. He saw the horrified but unvoiced certainty that the "Immortals" were mad. Fear usually followed right after. That was the part the Highlander always hated the most. Well, he couldn't blame her. There were no words in any language that could tell about the Quickening. 

MacLeod wasn't the only one who had noticed that Rachel's willingness to listen was coming to an end. As Duncan paused, Methos hauled himself stiffly out of his chair near Joe and crossed over to perch on the corner of the desk. 

"You understand what we've been saying?" he asked Rachel, not unkindly. "You were killed that night, and your death triggered something that has changed you permanently. Your life is never going to be the same as it was. You're going to be young, and healthy, and lovely forever - don't roll your eyes at me, I've never yet met a woman who didn't know she was beautiful, and I've been around for - plenty of years. You know you're going to be this way forever, just the way you are now, until someone comes along and takes that pretty head? You understand all that?" 

A small nod of agreement. 

"And you understand that, because of this gift or curse or however you want to look at it, people who aren't as nice as we are will be coming for your head? That some of them will hunt you down and kill you with no remorse or conscience? And they'll always be able to find you because of that headache' sense, so you'd better learn to defend yourself against them, and quickly?" 

Another nod. 

"You understand it, but you don't believe a word of it, do you?" 

Rachel looked at Methos in solemn silence. Tried to think of something to say. Ended up simply staring at him wretchedly. 

"Right. By the way, you also think we've gone completely round the bend. At best, we're harmless lunatics living out a fantasy." Methos shrugged and turned to MacLeod. "Satisfied? She's got it all down pat. You can't *make* her believe it, you know." 

Mac and Methos looked at each other briefly as Rachel stared at the floor, blushing crimson, her face miserable. 

"You've got to know how it sounds," she said finally, very low. 

"Oh, we know, all right," Methos said. "We've done this one or two times before." 

"Does anybody ever believe you?" Rachel asked wryly. 

Before anyone could answer, the roar outside of a high-powered motorcycle grew louder and passed underneath the windows, coming to a stop near the main entryway. Mac and Methos felt the buzz and simultaneously checked for their swords, even though they had little doubt who the newcomer was. In the doorway of the office, Rachel wavered a little under a new wave of pain and queasiness and leaned briefly against the doorjamb. At least it was passing more quickly this time. 

"Hi, guys," called Richie as he bounced into the dojo, all energy and motion, and crossed to the office doorway. "If this is a party, it can start now. Hi," he said to Rachel, holding his hand out. "Richie Ryan." Bewildered, Rachel reacted automatically and took the hand the young man offered her. He shook it firmly with a grin of greeting and continued past her into the office. "Hey, Mac," he continued, "what's it your doctor pal calls this? A critical mass of Immortals?" The red-haired Immortal laughed at his own joke, and then finally paused long enough to notice the silence in the room. 

"I dropped by the bar and Mike said you guys were over here," he said, looking from one to the other. "I figured something might be going on. What's up? What've I missed?" 

"Richie Ryan, meet Rachel Hudson," MacLeod said. 

Rachel shook her head slowly. This was too weird. "He's one of you, too, right?" she said wearily. 

"One of *us*," Methos corrected her patiently. Rachel shot him an evil look but said nothing. 

"Rachel is ... new," MacLeod explained. "We've been telling her about us, but she's - having a little trouble with it." 

"Oh, I get it," Richie said, pulling off his leather motorcycle jacket and tossing it onto an empty chair. He smiled encouragingly at Rachel. "Yeah, it's pretty bizarre, isn't it?" 

"You might say that," Rachel answered, unamused. 

"You guys show her the healing thing yet?" 

MacLeod and Methos looked at each other. Methos shrugged. 

"Once. I did it *once*," he said peevishly. "I certainly didn't intend to make a habit of it, or to start a trend." 

"C'mon, guys," Richie chided them. "I bet nothing works better than that." He leaned across Mac's desk, flipped the drawer open, rummaged till he found what he was looking for. When he turned back to Rachel, he was holding a small throwing dagger. He tested the edge, found it razor-sharp and functional, well-kept, as were all of Duncan's weapons. 

Rachel's eyes widened and she quickly backed up several steps. Richie glanced at her in guileless surprise. 

"Hey, no big deal," he told her reassuringly. "See?" He casually drew the edge lightly across the palm of his hand, then held it out for Rachel to see. 

Even from where she stood, several yards away and poised to run, Rachel saw the small trickle of blood that ran down the young man's fingers, immediately followed by the brightness of the Healing spark as it flickered briefly across his palm and was gone. 

Rachel felt everything stop. Time, thought, even her breathing. She stared blankly at the unblemished hand as Richie held it out towards her. He displayed the intact flesh as though it were a personal accomplishment. 

"Happens every time, just like that," Richie confided, looking at his palm in admiration himself. "Cool, huh?" 

The blood pounding in her temples and behind her eyes reminded Rachel to breathe again. She drew one brief, shallow breath, then another. Haltingly, she stepped back into the doorway of Duncan's office and approached the young redhead lounging against the edge of the desk. She reached out tentatively, and he let her take his hand. She stared at the flesh of his palm, searching for the scar that had to be there. It just had to. Why couldn't she see it? 

"Do that again," she heard herself saying in a husky whisper. 

"Sure," Richie said obligingly, and again drew the blade swiftly across his left palm as Rachel watched. 

Rachel gasped softly as she saw, close-up, the small, bright flicker of the Healing. It lasted only a few seconds, and then Richie's skin was smooth and firm again. Rachel stared, holding Richie's hand in hers tightly, turning it over in the light, running her fingers across the seamless flesh, gently at first, then more insistently, wiping the traces of blood away with her fingers, searching for the scar that simply wasn't there. 

Methos looked at MacLeod. "Why didn't *you* think of that?" he muttered. Duncan shrugged, accustomed to his friend's acerbic sense of humour. 

||The knife,|| Rachel thought desperately. ||This has to be some sort of gimmick.|| Wordlessly, she held her hand out expectantly to Richie. He shrugged and placed the hilt in her hand. 

"It's sharp," he warned her. 

Rachel dropped Richie's hand and examined the knife meticulously. She had seen, used, even constructed any number of stage props over the years. There were few tricks she hadn't either seen or heard of. She turned the dagger over and over, looking for any sign that would indicate how this one worked. 

Nothing. No seams, no welding, no hollow places or moving parts. No balance flaws. No flaws at all. 

Swiftly, before she could let herself think about what she was doing, Rachel flipped the hilt into her grip and drew the blade gingerly across the flesh of her left palm. Sure enough, a shallow gash opened below her thumb and a small trickle of blood welled up and ran across her palm, just as expected. She let out the breath she had been holding, and relaxed. ||Idiot,|| she scolded herself, shaking her head with a wry, self-deprecating smile. 

Then the small, silver spark crackled slowly across her flesh, shining and tickling. Healing. In a few moments it was gone, and with it went the small cut. 

Rachel stared at her palm in silent horror. 

[End of Part 3 of 7] 

[ADVENT, Part 4 of 7] 

She wears an iron vest Her profession's her religion Her sin is her lifelessness And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah's great rainbow She spends her time peeking Into Desolation Row -------------------- "Desolation Row", B.Dylan 

Gently, MacLeod reached out and took the dagger from Rachel's unresisting fingers. Rachel glanced up at him hopelessly, then turned to Richie and Methos, looking from one to the other with that same agonized stare. Methos was standing to one side with his arms folded, staring at the floor. Richie shrugged and dropped his eyes in the face of her stunned anguish. Finally Rachel turned beseechingly to Joe. He had been silent for hours, listening, observing, working his way through most of Duncan's best Scotch. 

"It's true, Rachel, darlin'," he said quietly. "It's all true. I wish we could tell you something different." 

Rachel stared down at her hand again, then mindlessly wiped the small smear of blood on her jeans. She turned without a word and wandered aimlessly out of the office and across the studio. Duncan followed her as far as the office door and watched as Rachel made her way towards the wide wooden staircase on the far side of the studio. She collapsed onto the step and leaned against the carved wooden post. With her sagging shoulders and her bowed head, she barely resembled the watchful, formal young woman who had walked across the dojo to his office only hours ago. 

Behind him, Richie moved forward and started to speak. MacLeod silently held up his hand, and Richie subsided. 

"She needs to grieve," he whispered to the younger Immortal. "She needs time." 

Richie opened his mouth again to speak, reconsidered, and shrugged in acceptance. Mac remained in the doorway, watching Rachel, wanting to give her some semblance of privacy but unwilling to leave her completely alone. 

Across the studio, Rachel was grateful for the support of the wide wooden steps and the oversized corner post. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the rails, but the thumb of her right hand continued running obsessively back and forth over the scar that wasn't there. 

||Breathe,|| she instructed herself mechanically. ||Breathe. Think.|| It was a long time before she could form any thoughts more coherent or constructive than that. When she was finally able to consider what had happened to her, the only options she could come up with were almost worse than not being able to think at all. 

||Flashbacks.|| It was the first possibility that came into her mind, and it even made some sense. That second year in Germany had been a little ..... reckless. Maybe, just maybe, she'd taken something then that was coming back to haunt her now. That could explain auditory hallucinations, and visual ones, too. And if she was having flashbacks, at least that was something that would eventually wear off, and she'd be normal again. 

Except - except she'd never *done* acid. She didn't remember anybody even having any. A lot of other stuff, but not that. If there was something else that could cause flashbacks, she'd never heard of it. And she'd only experimented for a short while, anyway. She'd missed a performance at the Stattsoper - she was only in the chorus, thank God - and she'd never touched anything again. It was weeks before she'd even felt safe drinking beer. ||Somebody could have slipped me something,|| she speculated half-heartedly, already knowing that this wasn't the answer, either. A professional singer depended on the state of her body the same way that a professional athlete did. Rachel simply couldn't believe that she might have taken something like that, even unknowingly, and not be aware of it afterwards. 

So drugs and flashbacks were out. Which left only two viable explanations. The first alternative was unbelievable. The second was only .... a nightmare. 

||It must be me,|| she thought desolately, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her head against the wooden post. ||People don't just magically heal, so I can't have seen what I thought I saw. That means something's wrong with *me*. Schizophrenia. Delusions. Something awful.|| She drew a deep, shuddering breath. 

||Use the word, damnit. You've gone insane.|| 

There. 

Oddly enough, using the word made her feel ... better. Relieved. Now that it was out there, she could look at her options and *think*. 

||Either you've lost it completely .... or everything they've said is true, whether you believe it or not,|| she told herself. ||So how are you going to decide which?|| 

She could only think of one way. It was in the right-hand pocket of the battered old tweed jacket she wore, weighty and solid, pressing against her thigh. 

If she had fallen down some rabbit hole into some strange world where MacLeod's bizarre story was true .... well, then, she'd heal. ||Heal *again*,|| she reminded herself humourlessly. 

If not, then she'd be dead. 

Simple. 

It wasn't like the idea had never crossed her mind before, during those long stretches of empty days between jobs. When she went to bed at night, she sometimes thought wistfully of dying in her sleep. What was there to get up for in the morning? She had no family, never stayed in one place long enough to have friends. Nobody would miss her. Her death wouldn't hurt anyone else. The only meaningful thing she'd had in her life for years was her music. 

||"I get weary, and sick of trying/I'm tired of living and scared of dying,"|| she recited to herself mockingly. ||A few times, fear of dying was the only thing that kept you alive. Well, now you've got something even worse to be afraid of. You may be losing your mind. Is that more frightening than death? Is it more frightening then finding out that Mr. MacLeod is telling you the truth?|| 

Oh, yeah. Infinitely more. 

||If you're going crazy, you're better off dead. If you're *not* going crazy .... then this won't matter.|| 

Rachel slipped her right hand into her pocket, got her fingers around the gun, and slipped the safety off. She thought, not for the first time, about how to do it. A shot to the head was out of the question - too many horror stories about failed attempts that left you a human vegetable or worse. 

She stared at her left hand bleakly - the one that was supposed to have been cut, but wasn't. Lots of veins in the wrist there, maybe even an artery or something. 

MacLeod and his friends were all the way across the empty studio. No way they could reach her in time to stop her. 

She had to chuckle mirthlessly at that. ||If they really believe I can't die, why would they bother stopping me?|| 

Rachel raised her head and stared out the high windows, where the tops of Seacouver's towers were beginning to appear as the black night sky lightened to grey. She sat there in silence for a long time, staring out at the sky, hugging herself as though she were cold. Across the dojo, the Immortals and Joe waited. Nobody moved or broke the quiet as Rachel sat on the steps, gathering her resolve and trying to come to some sort of peace with herself and her decision. 

Finally, she took one long, deep breath, let it out slowly, squared her shoulders, and raised her chin in determination. In one swift, resolute motion, she drew a small, heavy handgun from her coat pocket and pressed the muzzle against her left wrist. 

"NO!" shouted Duncan impulsively, lunging across the studio towards her, but it was far too late and he heard the gunshot even as he started moving. The gun clattered on the floor and he only reached Rachel in time to catch her as she tumbled forwards off the steps, crumpled in agony, tears streaming down her face, her mouth and eyes flown wide with pain and shock. She never made a sound as he helped her to the floor, only gasped for breath as she knelt, doubled over, cradling her left hand. Duncan knelt beside her, his arms around her tightly for comfort and support, but Rachel managed to keep herself more or less upright. Across the room, Methos returned to his chair in patient, resigned silence and sat quietly beside Joe, holding his glass out to Dawson wordlessly for a refill. Richie started forward, stopped, turned ineffectually from Methos to Joe and back, finally stood helplessly in the middle of the floor. Behind him, in Mac's office, Dawson poured for himself and for Methos, then dropped his head wearily into his hands. 

Finally, after several long, awful moments, Rachel drew a steady breath, then another. Duncan kept tight hold of her, his arms around her shoulders, his chin resting on the top of her head, waiting. Slowly, Rachel unfolded her body, shrugged herself loose from MacLeod's supporting arms, and apprehensively held her left hand out in front of her. She stared mutely at the ugly wound, not nearly healed yet, but already beginning to knit itself back together under the sticky mess of drying blood. Flexed her wrist tentatively, finding stiffness and pain; difficult, but not unbearable. She turned her arm over gingerly, saw that the exit wound just below her hand had already closed. Turning her hand back and forth, she sometimes caught the faint silver spark of Healing light as it danced over and around the raw, burned flesh. The small, bloody hand began to tremble. Duncan pulled her closer to him as she began to shudder; and, finally, Rachel gave in. She leaned against MacLeod's chest and let herself begin to cry. Her small body began to shake convulsively with harsh, wracking sobs that were torn from deep inside her; but she never made a sound. She clung to Duncan like a child, buried her face in his dark hair and wept silently. Hopelessly. MacLeod continued to hold her tightly, stroking her hair, softly whispering things that were reassuring and meaningless, rocking her gently until she had cried herself out. ||If I could have spared you this, I would have,|| he thought compassionately, remembering his own confusion and, yes, fear, when he had first realized he had returned from death. 

It was sunrise before it was all over. At last, Rachel wearily lifted her head from Duncan's shoulder and unwrapped herself from the comfort of his body. For a moment she sat where she was on the floor, staring at nothing; then she dragged her arm across her damp face, wiping tears away with the rough wool of her sleeve. She stood unsteadily, looking across the dojo to the office. Through the glass panels, she saw that Mac's friends were still there, waiting with them. She was too exhausted to even be embarrassed. 

Rachel held up her filthy hands and looked at Mac questioningly. Wordlessly, he led her upstairs to the locker rooms and showed her where the towels were, then let the door close behind her and walked back down to the office. He dropped onto the worn leather couch and ran his hands through his hair with a dejected sigh. 

"Well, *I* think she took it pretty well," Methos offered helpfully. 

Alone, finally alone, Rachel pulled off her jacket and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror as she washed her hands vigorously. Her face was red and swollen from crying, and there was a smear of blood across her cheek; but other than that she didn't look any different. ||Funny,|| she thought vaguely. ||Shouldn't you *look* different when you become an entirely different person?|| 

It took a while, but finally her hands were clean. She turned her left hand over and over, staring at the wound as the soap and water washed over it. It was still swollen, and livid with bruising, but the lines of burned, ripped flesh were already merging back into white skin. She made a few half-hearted attempts to clean the front of her sweater, but it was caked with blood, long past being salvageable. 

Rachel turned on the cold water and let the sink fill. While she waited, she methodically pinned up her hair again, gathering up all the loose strands and stray locks that had come undone during that awful scene. When the sink was full to the brim, she took a deep breath and plunged her face into the icy water up to her ears, holding her breath for several minutes. When she finally came up for air, she checked her reflection again and was relieved to see that the redness and swelling had gone down a little. At least she didn't look quite so pitiful. She reached for the soap and washed her face in cold water, groped for a fresh towel and scrubbed hard with it. She studied at her reflection again, not too pleased with the sad, doleful expression she saw there. 

She lifted her shoulders and scowled defiantly at the forlorn woman in the mirror, then relaxed her features till finally her reflection was something closer to the familiar calm face she usually saw. "OK, Rache," she said aloud, grim and determined, folding her jacket over her crossed arms. "Showtime." 

The four men looked up as Rachel walked slowly back into the studio and across the wooden floor to the office. She hesitated in the doorway, but only for a moment; then she crossed to an empty chair in front of the desk and dropped into it. She took a deep breath, and then looked up at them, bleakly, grimly, but not hopelessly. She looked from one to the other, taking their measure in the light of the new day, her mouth set firmly, her head held high. 

"All right," she said quietly. "What happens now?" 

[End of Part 4 of 7] 

[ADVENT, Part 5 of 7] 

And when finally the bottom fell out I became withdrawn, The only thing I knew how to do Was to keep on keepin' on like a bird that flew, Tangled up in blue. -------------------- "Tangled Up In Blue", B.Dylan 

"Now, we help keep you safe till you've been trained," MacLeod explained. 

"Trained for what?" she asked listlessly. 

"Trained to stay alive. Self-defense, just like you came here for, and other things too. There are the Rules I mentioned. Most of us abide by them. Not all, but most. We're like any other group of people. Many of us are good people, just trying to make a peaceful life in the world for ourselves; and some of us are..." 

"Exceptional?" Methos suggested helpfully. 

"Some of us are not so good," Duncan finished, determinedly ignoring the older Immortal. "It's important, for now, to remember that whenever you feel that headache, or the dizziness you had before, your life could be in danger. That headache you've been feeling warns you when another one of our kind is around." 

"You make it sound like I'm going to be living in a war zone," Rachel said bleakly. "Don't you guys ever call a truce?" 

"Well, in a way", Duncan answered. "One of the Rules prevents fighting on any form of Holy Ground, like a church -" 

"CHURCH!!" gasped Rachel, leaping frantically to her feet. MacLeod was startled into silence at her sudden outburst and the flurry of activity; in the corner, Methos started and his feet fell from the desk to floor with a heavy thump. Joe and Richie just stared as Rachel demanded of nobody in particular, "Omigod, what time is it? .... Look, I have to leave, right now!!" 

She dashed for the door of the office, grabbing the doorjamb to swing around the corner into the open studio, and headed at a mad dash across the studio towards for the entry hall. 

"Wait - Rachel, wait!!" Duncan rushed after her, caught her by the elbow. She jerked around at his touch and furiously wrenched her arm from his grasp. The small face she turned up to him glowered in warning, and she stood her ground and stared up at the Highlander defiantly, like a mouse standing up to a lion. It might have seemed funny if Rachel hadn't looked so determined. 

"Look, I believe you," she said grimly, holding up the wrist that should have been damaged beyond repair. "I have to. But right now I've got to get to church, and I couldn't go dressed like this, even if ....." Rachel passed her hand distastefully over the crusts of dried blood that matted the front of the old sweater she wore. "I've got to go, right now!!" she insisted, spinning abruptly on her heel and heading for the door again as she spoke. 

With his advantage of height and longer legs, MacLeod caught up to her and maneuvered in front of her, holding his hands out; Rachel stopped abruptly and actually stamped her foot in angry frustration. She may have finally accepted the comfort and support he had offered, but clearly she had her own agenda and she was intent on following it. MacLeod spoke quickly. "Rachel, I'm not trying to stop you. Just let Adam go with you, all right?" 

"Who?" Methos said, startled out of his silence. 

"Adam? Why Adam?" Rachel demanded. 

"Yes, why Adam?" objected Methos. 

"Why anybody?" Rachel complained. 

Duncan held up his hands placatingly. "Humour me. Let Adam go with you. Please. Call it silly, call it patronizing, call it anything you want. Just let Adam escort you there and back." 

Rachel looked from Methos to MacLeod distractedly, running a hand through her disheveled bangs and pulling on her jacket as she considered. She was beginning to feel a sense of safety with Mr MacLeod, but she didn't know his friends from .... well, from Adam. ||OK, it's only 2 or 3 miles to my place, then a few blocks to the bus stop, all public areas, and it's broad daylight. I'll be safe enough,|| she decided. ||Anything to get *out*!!|| 

"All right, fine, whatever," she agreed in exasperation, "but come on, let's just GO!" 

"That would work beautifully, except that Adam has other obligations," Methos grumbled irritably. 

"Hey, I'll take her," Richie jumped up eagerly and grabbed his jacket. "It's Sunday, I haven't got other plans. C'mon, Rachel, I'll give you a ride. Where are we headed?" 

"*Just* a minute," Rachel protested. "No WAY am I getting in a car with a total stranger!" 

"HOLD IT," roared MacLeod. 

The bickering stopped immediately and the dojo fell silent. MacLeod looked from one to the other, sifting the options rapidly. 

"Richie, give Rachel your sword. *Don't* argue," he warned, holding up his hand as Richie opened his mouth to object. "Just *do* it, please. Sheath and all." 

Richie hesitated, then shrugged and unbuckled his scabbard. He held it out to Rachel. Her jaw dropped as the weapon appeared as if out of thin air, and she eyed it as though it were unclean. 

"Rachel. Take the sword. Do you want to get to church or not?" he added as she continued to stare at it without moving. 

Rachel quickly reached out and took the blade from Richie, holding it gingerly but competently by the hilt and scabbard. MacLeod noted that she handled the sword with some familiarity, and he filed the information away for the future. 

"Now," he continued, "you have your gun, and you have Richie's sword. Without it, he can't do you any permanent damage; and if he does anything you don't like, you can shoot him." 

"Gee, thanks a bunch, Mac," Richie grumbled, offended. 

"But remember this," MacLeod went on. "Richie was my student, and he's my friend. If you take his head ...." He looked Rachel straight in the eye, pausing to make sure he had her full attention. 

"If you take his head, I'll come after yours, and I swear there's no place on earth you'll be safe from me." 

In recent years, Rachel had done battle with tyrannical directors, abusive tenors, and innumerable airline and customs clerks. She was accustomed to standing her ground and winning her battles, but she also recognized the voice of unquestionable authority when she heard it. She stared up into the dark eyes of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and nodded wordlessly. 

"Good. Then go. Richie, just make sure you get her back here safely, and don't leave her alone till she's on Holy Ground." 

"I got it, Mac. I'll take care of her." At Richie's words, Rachel spun on her heel and, finally, dashed through the entryway and out the door. The young redhead followed her, paused at the hallway and turned back. "Hey, Mac," he called with a grin, "I didn't know you cared!" 

MacLeod waved him away, and the young man followed Rachel out the door. As the door closed behind Richie, Mac turned to Methos. 

" Other obligations?' " he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Methos shrugged. "Adam Pierson has some important research to do. Anyway, *you're* the one with the fetish for taking in stray kittens, not me." He unfolded his long legs from the chair he'd taken up residence in, stood and stretched. "I presume that if she's willing, you're planning to take her on as a student?" 

"Why? Are you offering?" Duncan asked with a sardonic grin. 

"Not me, my friend. That particular burden I'm content to leave to you." 

The entryway door slammed again and Richie stomped back into the dojo and to the office doorway, glowering. 

"She won't ride on my bike," he announced peevishly. "Can I borrow a car from one of you guys?" 

Simultaneously, Joe and Methos looked to MacLeod. The Highlander grimaced, but he reached into the desk drawer, fished out the keys to his beloved T-Bird. 

"After she leaves church, try to get Rachel to agree to stay here for a few days," he said to Richie, and tossed him the keys. The younger Immortal caught them easily in mid-air with a broad grin. 

"Thanks, Mac," Richie called over his shoulder as he headed back towards the entry hall. 

"Get her back here in one piece," MacLeod called after him. It occurred to him a moment later that he wasn't sure whether he was referring to Rachel or to the car. 

As Richie left, Methos drained the last of his scotch. "Well, I'm off," he announced. "Just out of curiosity - if you're so concerned that somebody look out for Rachel, why didn't you go with her yourself?" 

"I need to get one of the third floor rooms ready for her to stay in. Don't start," he added, as Methos gave him an incredulous stare. "She lives in a bad part of town, and her home's already been broken into once." 

"Oh, by all means, take in your stray and give her a safe home. Since you cut Richie loose I've been wondering what you were going to occupy yourself with." The oldest Immortal nodded to Joe as he left. "Later, Joe." 

The Watcher was still seated in the corner, his chin propped in his hand and his elbow on the corner of Mac's desk. He lifted a hand to his friend and former colleague as Methos strolled across the studio and out the door. 

Mac turned to the Watcher. "Joe -" 

"Way ahead of you, Mac," Dawson answered. He was already getting to his feet and reaching across the desk for MacLeod's phone. He swiftly dialed a number from memory and held the phone to his ear, swaying impatiently on his cane. 

||Every once in a while,|| thought Duncan, ||having a Watcher can actually be a *good* thing. Especially one who's willing to break the Oath if there's good enough reason.|| 

"Central? This is Dawson. Look, have there been any new arrivals reported in Seacouver, or the surrounding areas? ..... Don't know, I just saw her tonight for the first time. Long enough to get an apartment, anyway; sounds like it's in a bad part of town ..... she's calling herself Rachel Hudson, but that may not mean anything ..... OK, right ..... about 5 feet tall, 110 pounds, hair black, eyes blue." 

"Grey," MacLeod corrected him. 

"Eyes blue-grey," Dawson temporized. "Physical age - early, middle twenties." He glanced at Duncan, who nodded in silent agreement. "She says she's a singer. No, I don't know what kind, and I don't know that it's true. Yeah, I'll wait ..... OK ....." 

He put a hand over the mouthpiece and said to MacLeod, "No Immortals reported as arriving in the Pacific Northwest in the past four months. No flags or special attention reports for this area. They're checking the international database." At a sound from the phone, he listened again intently. 

"Nothing?" he finally said. "Not anywhere? You're sure? ..... OK, I know .....Yeah, anything that comes in, contact me directly, and mark it urgent. I also need an updated list of all subjects known or suspected to be in this area. Oh, and put a marker online for a possible New Immortal, first death last week, here in Seacouver. Yeah, Rachel Hudson unless we get further information. No, that is not, repeat NOT confirmed. Only an unsubstantiated possibility at this point. She still might be someone we know, or someone we've just never heard of before. I'll get back to you. Right. Thanks, Marion. I owe you. Again, right, I owe you again." 

He clicked the phone off and laid the handset back on the cradle. 

"It's as official as we can make it for now," he told the Highlander. "No new arrivals known in this area. Nobody's reported any missing subjects that fit even her general description. I'll tell you, Mac, I think she's the real thing." 

[End of Part 5 of 7] 

[ADVENT, Part 6 of 7] 

How does it feel, How does it feel To be without a home, Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? -------------------- "Like A Rolling Stone", B.Dylan 

In Duncan's T-Bird, the two young Immortals sat in the sulky silence of wounded dignity as Richie backed out of MacLeod's parking slot. Neither of them was particularly happy with the arrangement. Rachel, sitting rigidly upright with Richie's rapier between her knees, was clearly furious at being watched over; and although Richie had conceded Rachel's point about taking a car ("It's a *church*, Richie; I'm going to be wearing a *dress*"), even a perceived slight to his beloved motorcycle was always taken personally. Still, he was rather pleased that Mac had given him the "protector" role. Richie enjoyed seeing himself in that light. He sometimes even admitted that he welcomed opportunities to emulate his teacher. 

"Where are we going?" he asked her as he pulled across the small parking lot and up to the highway. 

"Home first, on Vestal Street, so I can change. Then, St Mark's Episcopal." 

The T-Bird glided smoothly out of the parking lot and into the street. "The cathedral?" he asked. "That big, stuffy place? It's halfway across Seacouver. Why not go someplace closer, just for today, anyway?" 

"Because St Mark's is the one that pays me," Rachel replied. "I'm the soprano section leader and one of the choir soloists." 

"You mean they pay you to go to church?" Richie asked in surprise. Maybe there were advantages to churchgoing that he had never considered. 

"No," Rachel answered icily, "they pay me for ten years of working my tail off studying and practicing, and five years of professional experience, and learning the music on my own outside of choir practice, and being there for every holiday, and -" 

"OK, I get it," Richie interrupted. "So you must be pretty good, huh?" 

She shrugged. "I do all right. More important, I work hard and they can depend on me .... Thanks for driving me, by the way," she said, not ungraciously. "I can't be late, and I mostly have to walk or take the bus." 

"Don't mention it. Hey, any excuse to drive Mac's T-Bird, right?" That got a smile out of Rachel. ||Way to go, Ryan!|| Richie congratulated himself. Aloud, he asked, "Which block of Vestal?" 

She directed him to a neighbourhood that was only a few miles away. This early on a Sunday morning, the streets were nearly deserted. Rachel spoke very little as they rode down the broken pavement, but Richie noticed her staring at her left wrist, turning it over and over as it slowly healed. 

"You know, I'm new at this Immortal thing, too," he offered. 

Rachel looked up at him. "Really? You're not four or five hundred years old, like them?" 

"Not!! It just happened to me two years ago. Mac was my teacher till - well, for as long as I needed one." 

Rachel sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. "How'd it happen to you?" she finally asked quietly. 

"I was shot," Richie answered briefly. "You?" 

"Someone broke into my room and choked me." 

"Must have been pretty scary," Richie commented sympathetically. 

Without answering him, Rachel pointed down the street. "That's where I live. The beige one. I think it used to be yellow." 

Once, in its prime, the house had been stately and elegant, but years ago it had followed the rest of the neighbourhood into a slow, steady decline. Mismatched sets of bars across the front windows showed how far into decay the area had slipped. Today, the house was probably owned by a slumlord or a low-budget rental corporation. The original rooms had been hacked into smaller apartments, to be rented out to people with uncertain income and no furniture. All manner of renters lived here: students, addicts, working mothers with young children and no other place to go. And Rachel, a singer, who was now also an Immortal. 

There was a parking space on the road not too far away, and Rachel leaped out of the car before Richie had even brought it to a complete stop. She ran up the sidewalk towards her stoop, fumbling in her pocket for the keys. Swearing under his breath, Richie slammed the parking brake on. He snatched his sword from the floor of the front seat where Rachel had abandoned it, tucked it carefully under his jacket, and followed her at a run. ||Damn, damn, damn. If she loses her head, Mac will have mine on a platter!|| he thought, profoundly grateful that he felt no buzz besides Rachel's. 

Rachel waited impatiently for him at the door, dragging off her boots and flinging them haphazardly inside. When Richie was close enough to prevent anyone else from slipping in, she darted inside and disappeared through an open doorway, where Richie heard the sound of water running start almost immediately. He carefully closed the front door and locked it behind him, and looked around cautiously. The bathroom door was still half-open, and he could hear the shower running as he went to the front window, looking out through the bars guardedly. Rachel's home was as small on the inside as it had looked from the outside, only two rooms and a bathroom. There was no kitchen, just a hotplate and a small refrigerator in a corner. Richie saw no obvious places someone could be hiding, and he checked the closets just to make sure they were alone. The furniture was shabby, but Rachel had brightened the dingy apartment with unusual fabrics and vivid colours. The ruined sweater and her jeans and ..... other things lay on the floor of the bathroom. Through the open door, Richie could hear Rachel singing in the shower, her silvery voice running through scales and snatches of melodies as she warmed up. 

||Pretty,|| he thought, honestly impressed. 

Richie walked through the open door into the bedroom. He inspected the room carefully, wondering what he was looking for. There were bars across the window on the outside, he could see that when he brushed aside the homemade curtain. The bars matched the ones on the front window. They were old, and coated with rust, but they looked secure enough. 

In the bathroom, the shower stopped and Richie heard the curtain rings rattle across the rod. 

"S'cuse me," Rachel muttered, dashing suddenly into the room, wrapped in an oversized towel, her black hair streaming water in a trail behind her on the floor. She threw open the door to the small cupboard that served as a closet and began tossing clothes onto the bed. Richie stared at her for a moment, caught by surprise. Rachel glanced up, saw he was still standing there. With his mouth open. 

She grimaced at her forgetfulness. ||Oops. We're not in Europe anymore, Toto,|| she told herself. ||Gotta remember how easily American boys are shocked.|| "Sorry," she apologized aloud, "I've lived in dorms and hostels for years. In America, though," she added, as Richie continued to stare, "I think that people usually dress in private. Or so I'm told." 

Richie felt his ears flaming hot red as he quickly retreated to the other room. He went to the front window and looked out cautiously. As far as he could tell, the street was still deserted. 

"Hey, Rachel," he called to her, "the guy that attacked you - how'd he get in?" 

"Through the window in here," Rachel's voice answered from the bedroom, slightly muffled. 

That made sense - there were only two windows, but the one in the front room faced the street while the one in the bedroom was on the side of the house. 

"How'd he get through the set of bars?" 

"He took it off. The police said the bolts must have been rusted through. I didn't think they looked that bad when I moved in." Richie heard her give a short, humourless laugh. "I guess I was wrong." 

Richie looked around the room again. The door was heavy and the lock was good enough, but nothing you couldn't get through if you wanted. He could have done it himself, let alone someone with real experience, like Amanda. If the windows weren't safe either .... 

Mac was right. Rachel needed to be out of here. 

"Hey, grab a change of clothes, a toothbrush, things like that," he called into the bedroom. "You may not be able to come back right away. Someone can bring you by later to pick up your things." 

Rachel appeared in the bedroom doorway, wearing a plain, knee-length black dress with long sleeves. A shoe was clutched under each arm, and a canvas bag printed with musical notation dangled from her shoulder. 

"What are you talking about?" she mumbled around a mouthful of hairpins. 

"You can't stay here. It's not safe. Mac will probably put you up for a while, like he did me. Now wait a minute," he said in exasperation, as Rachel started angrily to object, "why does everything with you have to be a fight? Why can't you just say, Thank you, Richie' and let us help? Because, believe me, I've been where you are, and you're gonna *need* help." 

Rachel stared at him for a moment, started to speak but changed her mind. Richie was right. She wasn't safe here - the break-in had proved that. Whatever it was, this .... this *thing* that had happened to her, she *did* need help. Rachel sighed fatalistically and disappeared back into the bedroom. She emerged a few seconds later carrying a small red gym bag. Padding swiftly across the floor on bare feet, she headed towards the door; as she passed Richie she put her hand on his arm and looked up at him seriously. 

"Thank you, Richie," she said, quite sincerely, and continued on out the door almost at a run. She tossed her keys to him and rushed down the sidewalk to the car, hopping on first one foot and then the other as she slipped on her shoes. 

"Don't you ever just *walk* anywhere?" Richie yelled after her as he locked the door and jogged down the sidewalk after her. 

As they got into the car, Richie looked around the street and up and down the sidewalks. No sign of anyone. No sounds of footsteps, no cars nearby. No buzz from any other Immortal presence. 

Rachel tossed the gym bag into the back seat. "Do you know where St Mark's is?" she asked urgently, twisting her wet hair into a knot and pinning it at the back of her neck. 

"No problem," Richie answered confidently as he pulled the car into the empty street and turned downtown towards Tenth Avenue. "I know a great shortcut, too." 

"A shortcut?" Rachel repeated doubtfully as Richie shifted into higher gear and took the corner a little faster than was necessary, just because the T-Bird could do it. 

Neither of them noticed the window of the apartment directly above Rachel's, where a curtain was falling back into place across the cracked glass. 

[End of Part 6 of 7] 

[ADVENT, Part 7 of 7] 

'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form. -------------------- "Shelter From The Storm", B.Dylan 

"Pull around the corner and let me out at the side door," Rachel directed, pointing down a side street. 

Richie pulled up to the curb. No buzz from another Immortal, and the door into St Mark's was close and within clear sight. ||Seems safe enough. Once inside, she'll be safe on Holy Ground and I can find a place to park.|| He threw the clutch into neutral, put on the parking brake, and turned to face Rachel. She had the door open and was halfway out already. 

"Wait a minute!" he said. "We gotta go over the ground rules before you get out." Rachel turned towards him, scowling and impatient, but listening. 

"First: go straight inside and don't come out again. Once you're inside, you can't be attacked. It's the Holy Ground' rule. Don't let yourself be lured outside, either. OK? Second: tell nobody about being Immortal, and I mean *nobody*." 

"Don't worry," Rachel snorted. "Who'd believe me?" 

"Just keep remembering that. Third: when you're a little farther away from me, the buzz you're feeling will go away. When we're closer together again, it'll come back. When you feel it, don't panic, cause it'll probably just be me. A few Immortals do go to church now and then, I guess ..... although you're only the second one I've ever met who actually worked in one." 

"Will you be coming into the church, or do I meet you back here?" she asked. 

||She's taking this seriously. That's good,|| Richie thought, encouraged. Aloud, he said, "Probably. If I don't, I'll bring the car back here to pick you up. Either way I'll meet you at this same door afterwards. OK?" 

"OK, got it," Rachel said. "Can I *please* go in now?" 

"Yeah, go for it." Rachel jumped out, then turned back to Richie. 

"Thank you," she said seriously. Then, slamming the door of the car shut, she turned and dashed up the stone steps and into the safety of Holy Ground. 

"Stay inside!" Richie yelled one more time, although he knew she probably couldn't hear him. He watched till the doors of the Cathedral swung shut behind her and she was safe. 

Still no buzz of any other Immortal. Richie maneuvered the T-Bird into traffic and went in search of a parking place. 

++++++++++++++++++++ 

In the second floor of the house Rachel lived in, a young man picked up his phone on the first ring. 

"Hello? ... Oh, hi, Mr Hudson, I was hoping you would call again. Yeah, she was here, but she left again. Someone drove her in really early this morning. I heard them downstairs in her place for a while, but they didn't stay very long. No, it wasn't anybody I'd ever seen before, but I don't know any of her friends. Um ..... young guy, sorta medium build, curly red hair. Hey, no problem, Mr Hudson, I know you're real worried about her. I got a kid myself, if he were in trouble and wouldn't speak to me I'd about go crazy. Sure, anything I can do, just let me know. I'm most always home, so if she comes back I'll probably hear her. Sure. I like Rachel, she's a nice kid, I wouldn't want anything to happen to her either ..... well, thanks. Thanks. You're welcome. Hey, if it were my kid, I'd worry too. Yeah .... OK .... Bye." 

++++++++++++++++++++ 

Inside St Mark's, the halls were practically deserted. The 8:00 service was probably about halfway through, and the Cathedral Choir didn't begin rehearsal till 9:30. Rachel estimated she had an hour, maybe a little less, to pull herself together and create some reasonable imitation of sanity. She rushed to the Music wing as quickly as she could without attracting attention. She smiled and nodded automatically in greeting to the few people she passed, mostly older churchmembers who only knew her face and her voice, not her name; but she didn't speak aloud to anybody. She didn't trust herself to speak yet. 

The choir room was usually deserted at this time of the morning. To Rachel's intense gratitude, she was the first one there. "Thank God, thank God," she breathed aloud, nearly shaking with relief. She paused long enough to snatch up her choir robe, then fled down the dark hall to the practice room at the farthest corner. There were no locks, so she tossed her things blindly into a corner and sank to the floor with her back propped firmly against the door. She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapped her arms tight around her legs, and began to rock back and forth. 

"No," she whispered to herself, with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. "No, no, no, no, no........" 

It was several minutes before she could force her mind to form any other thought. ||Breathe,|| she finally ordered herself sternly as she opened her eyes and stared blankly into the darkness. ||Think. Get ahold of yourself. You're an actress, so act. You can do this. You only have to get through a couple of hours. Pretend it's true. Pretend you *believe* it's true.|| She looked down at her left wrist. She couldn't see the bruises in the dark, but she could feel how tender it still was, and how swollen. It should have been destroyed, beyond repair. She should have bled to death. 

||Well, you didn't. So pretend you believe it, and *think*.|| 

Once Rachel had realized that Richie had access to a car, she knew she would be able to get to St Mark's in plenty of time for choir practice. There had been no real need for the urgency of that headlong dash to her apartment and then on to the church at top speed. But Rachel had been frantic to get away. To be alone. She had been running on nothing but adrenaline and nerves for so long now, forcing herself to get through just one minute at a time. Since she had come out on the other side of the time-stopping pain of the gunshot wound, she'd only been able to formulate a single coherent plan: get away, get alone, get someplace where you can think this through. Everything else had been automatic pilot. Well, here she was, finally, with a little precious time and space to think - and her mind was frozen. 

Funny. She had half-expected to explode into tears again. She hated to cry - despised herself when she did it - but at this moment it would almost be worth it to release some of the furious waves of emotion that were rattling her so badly. But now, it seemed there were no tears left after that ridiculous, pathetic scene with MacLeod. She clenched her teeth at the embarassment of the memory. Sprawled on the floor, wailing, out of control. ||Oh, *that* was good, Rache. No wonder they've been treating you like you were a kid.|| 

||THINK!|| she told herself again angrily, and then answered herself: ||About what? What is there to think about? What is there to *do* about it? I'm .... || 

It was too soon. She couldn't even *think* the word. 

She *couldn't* live forever. She couldn't bear it. One day after another, empty and pointless. Meaningless. She couldn't do it. Nobody could. ||"All those days that I thought would never end/All those nights with another day to spend....."|| How could she live through an eternity? God in heaven, how had she even managed to get through twenty-five years so far? 

||You know how,|| Rachel reminded herself. 

She hugged her legs more tightly and squeezed her eyes shut again, resting her chin on her knees, disciplining herself to concentrate on how life felt whenever she sang. All those ridiculous illusions always seemed real then. The unreasonable fantasies of love, of family, of home ...... that idea that there was a reason to keep on going another day, whether you understood why or not. While she was singing, it mattered whether she lived or not. While she was singing, she really *was* alive. 

All the rest of the time, she was waiting to sing again. 

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Rachel was overcome by an overwhelming sense of loss. Grief rushed at her in torrents as she thought of so many possibilities that were lost to her forever now. 

||This is all I'm ever going to be,|| she thought miserably. ||If I can't get older, my voice can't grow anymore either. I'm too young. I'll be second-rate forever. I'll never sing Aida. I'll never sing Beethoven's Ninth. I'll never be the Marscheillen, or Tosca, or Turandot. Maybe I never would have anyway, but now there's no chance at all.|| She rested her forehead wearily on her knees, and felt the tears beginning to come. 

"No," Rachel ordered herself out loud. She pressed her fingers to the inside corners of her eyes, determined to hold back the tears. "Don't think that way. Think of what you'll be able to keep. You'll be Mimi and Musetta and Liu. You'll be Susannah - both Susannahs - and Zerlina, and Violetta. OK, maybe not Violetta, but Manon. *Both* Manons. Most of the Requiems. All the Lieder. Every damn song ever written by anybody with a French name. And musical theatre! And operetta! Think how much of *that* you'll have a chance to sing." 

She took a deep breath. ||You can do this.|| 

+++++++++++++++++++ 

The research library at Headquarters was usually deserted at this time of the morning. To Methos' satisfaction, he was the first one there. He placed two large, steaming black coffees on the desk beside his computer and munched on a vast cheese danish as he searched through the bound volumes on the shelves. There was quite an armload by the time he decided he had found everything he needed. He carried the remains of the pastry in his teeth and lugged the books over to the desk. He hoped that what he was looking for would be online - it was always so much faster that way - but that was never something that could be counted on. 

Alone in the dim library, Methos switched on the computer, waited for the system to boot, and called up the search screen. He considered for a moment, then typed in, "+student +head +taken". 

There were more hits than he had expected. 

++++++++++++++++++++ 

Not far overhead, the carillon chimed the half-hour: 9:30. 

"Showtime," Rachel told herself with a sigh. 

She got slowly to her feet and brushed herself off, gathering up her robe and her music. She searched through her folder, hunting the pieces she'd need for today's service. With no sleep in more than 24 hours, and nothing to eat for almost as long, she was glad they were singing things she knew cold. ||Gotta stop by the Fellowship Hall and grab some coffee and doughnuts,|| she told herself as she found the right anthems and looked over the music - two of her favorites, in fact .... 

Rachel looked at the two pieces of old sheet music again. The first, the shorter one, she had known for years and years. It was by Vaughan-Williams, one of her favorite composers. She turned the pages thoughtfully. As she read, the familiar words began to awaken old, half-forgotten yearnings: "O how amiable are thy dwellings .... my heart and my soul rejoice .... yea, the sparrow has found her an house, and the swallow a nest ....." 

A nest. A home. Shelter from the storm. As a child, bouncing from one foster-home to another, then from town to town in Europe as an adult, that had never seemed even remotely possible. Looking for a home, an amiable dwelling .... it was one of the reasons she had finally settled down in one place. She had thought that, just maybe, everything might come together in Seacouver .... 

The second piece was by a lesser-known composer, Edgar Bainton, and the title stopped Rachel's breath: "And There Shall Be No More Death". She leafed through the pages till she came to the final section, her favorite, with its poignant melody and rich harmonies: "and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away." 

Home. A heart and soul that could rejoice. No more sorrow, neither shall there be any more pain. 

Maybe there was still a chance that things could work out for her here in Seacouver. 

||You don't believe in omens, Rachel,|| she reminded herself belatedly, and a little wistfully. ||You barely believe in anything.|| 

Her hand had stopped throbbing, she noticed, and it felt like the swelling had gone down. Maybe she wouldn't have to answer any questions about it after all. 

||Hey!|| Her head snapped up in amazement. ||That damn buzz is gone, too!|| 

Funny. She hadn't noticed when the headache had stopped. 

With her music, her resolve, and as much hopefulness as she was capable of, Rachel Hudson lifted her chin, left the darkness of the practice room, and walked into a different life. 

++++++++++++++++++++ 

When you're standing at the crossroads That you cannot comprehend Just remember that death is not the end And all your dreams have vanished And you don't know what's up the bend Just remember that death is not the end ------------------ B.Dylan 

[Finis: ADVENT] 


End file.
